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Can you tell me a story? I can’t even begin to count how many times my nieces have asked me to do that. They absorb every ounce, of every word I speak when I tell them foolish and wild tales of growing up or stories from my older family members. When each story finishes I can be sure to hear – another one please. They love every second of it and stare at me like I am a wonder of the world. We all love a good story, told well.

Storytelling is one of the oldest forms of entertainment. Before we had the internet, before we had cable, before we had cellphones, before we had Ipads — people got together and told stories. I’ve always had an insatiable interest in people and witnessing the world around me. Like some people love running or music, a great love of mine is hearing or recanting a great story. I grew up in the country with no cable which meant one of our main forms of entertainment was going to visit relatives and neighbours in the evenings. If my Mom was going so was I, as it meant I got to listen in on adult conversations and hear crazy stories. I can clearly remember my Grand Uncle Emile telling the story of getting home to his fathers funeral in Cape Breton. He was living away working as an RCMP officer and on the day he was to travel planes (from the only airline in Canada at that time) were grounded. Instead of missing his fathers funeral RCMP officers did a convoy for him – they drove him to the edge of their districts where an officer from the next district would meet them. Amazingly, he made it all the way from Ontario to Cape Breton in time for his fathers funeral. He told stories with such zest. Hands going. I was completely captivated by him. Or what about the time when Grand Uncle Blais as a boy got a cows horn through his neck and nearly died. Or when my Grandmere spent an entire year in a sanatorium when she had TB. This left my Grandpere home with 9 children. Or when myself and 5 girlfriends convinced 2 police officers to drive us to the bar and they asked for underwear as payment. Or Grand Uncle Jerome who loved playing pranks. He once gave my cousin Heather a hen in a box for her birthday. When she opened the box the hen flew all around the living room. Or when my Grand Aunt Phyllis gave away unwanted kittens for Halloween one year. Or Grand Aunt Rita who swore her house was haunted and told creepy stories about seeing ghosts there. Or the time when my brother Steve went through a barbed wire fence on a sled ripping his face to shreds and my likely somewhere around 300 pound grandfather nearly fainted when he brought him home to my Mom. Or when our very drunk neighbour Freddy was lying out in the middle of the road in front of our house and my mother had to talk him through getting up and off the highway. I watched from the hedge so that Mom wouldn’t see me – she told me to go back to the house. Or about the time when Allan and Brent (who were in elementary school at this time) stole our school bus and did wheelies on the soccer field with it. Or about Mrs North Grant. An eccentric woman who lived in town, dressed like Sex and The City but wore knee high pantyhose. Or the time when Sarah and I at 15 stole her parents car to go to a party Or when Mom and I on our way to Australia on a stopover in L.A. took a bus tour of downtown and got stuck because that happened to be the day when Michael Jackson died. Or when my brother Chris was able to get a dirt cheap place to live in university because the landlord asked if her mentally challenged brother could live with them. Or the night when our dog and two cats all got hit by separate cars on the road in front of our house. Or when we went away for March Break once leaving my brother Chris home to look after the house, a very pregnant cow and other animals – the cow got out and the police found her over the road. They called my Grand Uncle (who is a farmer) assuming it was his cow. Chris went to pick her up the next day. On the way down the driveway she bawled and died, likely from exhaustion. That was a great call to get at our hotel. Mom and Dad only learned ‘the real story’ of what happened when my brother got married. Coyotes were not involved, but my brother going to a party and not coming home was. Or how we had so much snow in the winter that we used to jump off the roof of our house into the drifts. One year Davids’ boots were not dug out until spring. Or the times when people (sometimes complete strangers), crawled up our driveway when they went off the road in front of our house during a wild winter storm. They would stay for supper. Or what about a cousin having her gallbladder stones in a jar in the cupboard. I could quite literally go on and on and on.

This week one of our great storytellers Stuart MacLean died. He had an enormous talent for connecting Canadians through his ability to tell a story. Every Sunday thousands of us across Canada tuned in to hear him recount a wildly funny or touching Dave and Morley tale, or to hear him read a listeners ‘must be true to be read’ story. How many times have I heard a story and thought – that would be a great story for The Vinyl Café! A few years ago I sent in a real ringer of mine and got a response saying they would like to use it on air. Unfortunately, the right show to match my story with did not come around prior to Stuart bowing out.

Technology, rules, loss of community and paranoia from media has caused us to become kind of, well, boring. We don’t talk to strangers. We don’t take risks. We don’t let our kids be independent because we fear the ‘what if’. All the places good stories are made we don’t have anymore. Earlier this week when I was walking home from work I came across a situation at a cross walk. There was a man lying on the ground obviously in a lot of pain, a bus driver was talking him through the pain he was in – there was a big crowd of younger people looking but not helping (this was very close to a large university so students were coming from class). I asked her if she had called 911 and she had already done so. I decided I couldn’t help anymore and kept walking. I had an awful feeling in my stomach wondering what happened to him and thought of him a few times this week. Did he get hit by a car? Did he have a heart attack? Fortunately, on Friday morning I saw the guy on the street near my house. He is definitely a rougher looking guy and isn’t someone I would know. I said ‘Excuse me, you don’t recognize me, but I saw you on the ground earlier this week and have been thinking of you ever since.’ He said ‘Oh, I fell on the ice and popped my shoulder out of place.’ I said ‘thank goodness that is all it was – glad to see you are okay.’ He stopped for a second and looked right at me and said ‘Hey, nobody seems to care about each other anymore. Thanks so much for caring about me.’ My 10 year old niece was with me when this conversation happened. I see a lot of myself in Cora in the way that she absorbs everything that is said around her. She loves hearing stories and listening to adult conversations. We got picked up in a taxi and chatted with our driver the whole way to her house. Cora said- Aunt Emilie you will just talk to anyone. True, and I am not going to stop. It is in conversation and interaction with other people (not looking at our phones or watching our TVS ) where stories and lifelong memories are created.

I listen to CBC all day at work and although sometimes I wonder what the hell I am listening to, I generally feel more educated come the end of my workday. Stuart McLean is a favorite of mine as I love his story telling abilities, although sometimes I need to leave before one of his tales has ended. I have found myself saying “come on, get to the point, get to the end…” I saw him at the Rebecca Cohn a few months back where he read one of his listener stories. After attending the show I thought I must send him a story. The website claims that every submission is read. I typed up my story, hit send and got a reply which said “thank you for your submission, we’ve received 1000’s of stories from listeners and as promised we will read all of them. So, in the meantime don’t call us, we’ll call you if your story is selected”. I thought it was a lost cause at that point. Well 3 weeks later I got a response. They loved my story and want to read it on air. In the case that you don’t listen to Stuart here is what I sent him.

Growing up my very best friend was (and still is) my 1st cousin once removed (a term my grand aunt Rita confirmed is a genealogy truth), Sarah. Our mothers are first cousins. Although we grew up with common genes and community our lives were very different and this is mainly due to the contrast between our mothers. You could describe Sarah’s mother Aileen as unique, random, rare and certainly unpredictable. Aileen provided me with story material, laughter and many unique experiences. I have so many stories about this woman; a memory that sticks out occurred one afternoon when Aileen picked us up from my part-time job at the mall. Prior to picking us up that day Aileen hit Sobey’s for groceries and so there were bags all over the car. On this particular day we hopped in amongst the groceries and made our way out of the parking lot. The first part of Church Street was an upwards climb followed by a peak and then the downhill part. At the bottom of the hill there was a 3 way stop. We were clipping along when Aileen put her foot on the brake in order to stop at the intersection. Suddenly Aileen exclaimed “the car doesn’t seem to be stopping. My God the brakes aren’t working!” Normally this intersection is quite busy but for some unknown reason the coast was clear that day and so we pulled a Fred Flintstone (Aileen turned the car to make a left without slowing down and I believe we went up on two wheels). Few have ever seen a Cutlass Sierra being driven by a middle aged woman ever make such moves! We were now on St. Ninian’s Street which was long and flat, however, it ended at a busy intersection which required us to stop. We continued burning along past the cathedral where Aileen, a devote Catholic, blessed herself and said a Hail Mary. It was apparent that the car was not going to stop so we blew right through the stop sign causing cars coming from opposite directions to slam on their brakes. At this time Sarah said “Mom, Mom, put the car in park”! “Aileen followed the advice and slammed the gear shift into park. The car made sounds similar to that of a cow dying before coming to an abrupt stop. Aileen got out of the drivers seat and took a look at the pedals of the car. To our complete and utter disbelief wedged under the brake pedal was a boiled ham. Upon making this discovery Aileen exclaimed “My god, can you believe that we nearly died at the hands of a ham?” It seems that the ham rolled out of a grocery bag under the driversseat and wedged itself under the brake pedal. Can you imagine all the pieces that had to fall together to get that ham under the pedal? Every time I eat ham it reminds me of that day and how my life nearly ended “at the hands” of one.